


dancing by the light of the moon

by lindmea



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Late Night Feelings, One Shot, Romance, mentions of dancing, other than the metaphorical kind, takeaway curry, with no actual dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:16:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13761999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmea/pseuds/lindmea
Summary: Robin pays Strike a late night visit, bearing gifts.





	dancing by the light of the moon

**Author's Note:**

> For an anonymous Tumblr prompt: "Dancing <3"

Strike climbed slowly up the metal stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail. It was nearing 3 A.M., and a long night's worth of surveillance had come to nothing. All he wanted to do now was to free his aching stump from its prosthesis, eat enough of the three-day-old leftover chow mein in his fridge to shut up his stomach's rumbling, and then collapse into sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday - well, today was Sunday, he supposed - and he wouldn't have to drag himself out of bed until noon.

He heaved himself up onto the second-floor landing and halted; there was light seeping out from under his office door. Suddenly tense, he moved swiftly and silently. The door was unlocked; he pushed it open. The office was dark except for the pool of light coming from Robin's desk lamp, and on the couch, curled under a jacket and fast asleep, was Robin herself. The warm light slid across her face, and Strike stared, for a moment transfixed by the sight of her features relaxed and peaceful in sleep, by the fine blonde eyelashes brushing against her cheeks, by the slight parting of her soft lips.

He crouched down beside the sofa, ignoring the rub of his prosthesis. "Robin," he said quietly, and watched as she blinked herself awake, rolling her head to look at him; her eyes settled on his face, and her lips curved up in a soft smile that tugged at something deep inside his chest.

"Cormoran," she murmured, her voice hoarse with sleep. "I brought you a curry." She flopped one of her hands off the edge of the couch to gesture vaguely in the direction of the desk where, as he saw when he twisted to look, a large bag from his favourite Indian takeaway sat.

"What are you doing here?” he said, ignoring the tantalizing prospect of a reasonably fresh tikka masala. “It's 3 in the morning."

"Oh," Robin pushed herself upright; the coat that had been covering her slid to the floor, revealing her sparkly top that had ridden up, exposing a strip of pale skin above the waist of her tight black jeans. "I was out dancing."

Strike wrenched his eyes back up to meet hers. "Dancing?"

"It’s my cousin's hen night," she said as she sat up, swinging her legs off the couch and rolling her shoulders back, loosening tight muscles. Her feet were bare, Strike noticed, her toenails painted a pale rosy pink. He watched as she rubbed at her eyes, straightened her back, raked her hair away from her face - as she shook off the soft, sleepy vulnerability that had made his arms ache with wanting to wrap her in them.

"We were out dancing, and drinking, and then I thought-" she hesitated, her blue eyes locked on his, shining in the dim light. "I realized-" she cut herself off, biting her lower lip.

"What?"

"Nothing," she shook her head and pushed herself up off the couch. "This was stupid." She was looking away from him now, determinedly avoiding his gaze; she bent over to put back on the heels that had lain discarded at the foot of the couch, and her hair swung forward to cover her suddenly flaming cheeks.

"Robin," he spoke without thinking as she shrugged on her coat; she paused, her back to him, and he scrambled to find the right words, to give voice to the sudden certainty spreading through his chest like a sip of good whiskey that she needed to stay, that he needed to hear what she’d come to tell him.

He settled for clearing his throat and jerking his head towards the bag of curry. "Is there enough in there to share?"

“There is,” she affirmed quietly, cheeks still pink; and she allowed him to lead her out of the office and up the stairs, his hand falling to rest at the small of her back as though it had always belonged there, and she felt the next step of their dance tingle through her stomach and shiver over her skin.


End file.
